


Johnderella and the Glass Cane

by TheWhiteLily



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017 [12]
Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fairy Tale Retellings, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-02 19:42:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11516121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: Once upon a time, a wounded army doctor named Johnderella wished to go to the battle.





	1. Johnderella and the Glass Cane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts).



> JWP #15: Blood on the Snow: something inspired by a fairy tale or horror story

Once upon a time, there was a wounded army doctor named Johnderella.

Johnderella had once been called John, before a bullet took out his shoulder, his surgical career and his position in the army with a single, well-aimed shot. After that, he rather lost track of who he was and what it was he wanted to do with his life.

So when his psychologist, Ella, gave him a glass cane to aid him with his invisible ailment and a blog to record the pedestrian events of his life, he tried his best to follow her advice. Slowly, sinking in a morass of mind-numbing tedium and despair, he became Johnderella.

But Ella wasn’t a very good psychologist, because she had never been able to see that what John needed wasn’t a glass cane at all, nor a blog, nor a boring little bedsit, nor an ordinary life, nor indeed to be Johnderella at all.

Every night, Johnderella dreamed of the battle; every night he woke and wept because he knew that he could never go back; every night he tried not to think of the gun in his drawer and the respite it could give—for to him it seemed that the bullet in his shoulder had taken all chance for happiness along with everything else. Every day he tried to pull himself together using the glass cane and the blog, and every day he fell farther and farther from the man he’d once been.

One day, Johnderella was limping through the park, leaning heavily on his glass cane, when his fairy godfriend Mike Stamford recognised him.

“John,” he called. “John Watson!”

Johnderella barely remembered the name that he’d used to go by, but he was a friendly sort of man, given to social niceties, and so he sat down with his fairy godfriend and talked. He even—almost—managed to admit to Mike that he really wasn’t John Watson at all anymore.

Mike wasn’t a very good psychologist either, but he _was_ a good friend. And he remembered John Watson from the old days back at Barts, before he’d become Johnderella, when he’d still been climbing on the rooftops for a dare and challenging the psychology department to drinking contests.

Mike also had another friend, and he thought that _that_ John Watson could have got on rather well with _that_ friend.

“I dunno,” he told Johnderella. “Get a flatshare or something?”

And so Mike introduced Johnderella to the handsome Prince Sherlock, who took one look, felt an unfamiliar twitch from deep within his breast, and fell instantly, deeply in love—not with Johnderella at all—but with John Watson, the man he could see languishing beneath the bonds of the glass cane and the suffocation of his boring life. The one man among the myriads he’d sized up in a single glance who he could _see_ dreamed of the same battlefield as him; a man who was brave and kind and wise and more than worthy to fight alongside him.

And so Prince Sherlock devised a plan to rid Johnderella of his glass cane and reveal John Watson beneath.

The next night, Prince Sherlock’s Court of Scotland Yard threw a battle in honour of The Lady In Pink, and Prince Sherlock invited Johnderella to the battle, to deduce with him.

Johnderella was so amazed at Prince Sherlock’s skill at deduction; so captivated by the tantalising hints he could see of the battle beyond that he barely remembered his glass cane—or even the fact that he thought he was Johnderella now and not John Watson at all anymore. It was all going perfectly according to Prince Sherlock’s plan.

But the thing to remember about Prince Sherlock was that while he was brilliant, he was also very lonely—and he wasn’t at all used to having friends. So, in a moment of excitement, on the stroke of inspiration, he forgot that Johnderella still relied upon his presence to see the battle and couldn’t follow where he led; forgot about his plan to reveal to Johnderella precisely who still lived inside him, and Prince Sherlock dashed off into the fray on his own.

Johnderella’s transformation stuttered to a halt and he was left to limp away with the taunts of London’s finest ringing in his ears. Prince Sherlock’s elder brother, the suspicious Prince Mycroft, kidnapped Johnderella and tried to bribe him to work as a spy.

But still, John Watson’s heart beat sturdily within Johnderella’s chest. He refused and rushed to Prince Sherlock’s side to warn him as soon as he could.

Prince Sherlock tried again to take Johnderella to the battle, inviting him out to dine at the house of a grateful courtier while they watched for the enemy—and this time, when the game began, he spared a thought for his new friend, and called for him to follow. Together they pursued their quarry over the rooftops and through alleyways until Johnderella’s glass cane had been left far behind and it was only Sherlock and John running together, just as Prince Sherlock had seen they could be.

It was _marvellous_.

When Prince Sherlock’s courtier arrived bearing the forgotten glass cane, looking for the man whom Prince Sherlock had deduced with at the battle, John Watson stared at him in disbelief, and then at the grinning Prince Sherlock.  Then he looked back at the shining glass cane in the courtier’s hands and abruptly realised that not only it did not fit him anymore, but that it had never truly fit him in the first place. Certainly not nearly so well as his woollen jumper.

So John Watson took the upstairs bedroom in Prince Sherlock’s palace and proceeded to make himself at home.

The rest of the transformation, John wrought all by himself. He took his gun—once, the only remaining way out he’d been able to see—and transformed it into a tool for saving lives. Most frequently, Prince Sherlock’s. He took his blog—that pointless therapeutic tool that reduced any unfortunate reader to a vegetative state—and transformed it into a glittering vehicle to transport Prince Sherlock’s genius to the masses. And he took Prince Sherlock’s heart—that neglected, carved lump of wood that had twitched in recognition at the first sight of him—and transformed it into a real flesh-and-blood version which turned out to be, after all, an inconvenient two sizes too large.

Of course, I am yet to mention what the evil and jealous King Moriarty thought of all this: how he set his snipers on Prince Sherlock’s friends to cut out that newly-beating, living heart and to bring it back as proof; how only the trickery of a kind pathologist saved his life…

Nor have I told you about the mysterious Princess Mary, who breathed new life back into Johnderella during Prince Sherlock’s absence—who had sacrificed her voice and her former existence and vowed to speak only lies, all for the chance of an ordinary life as his wife and the mother of their most precious jewel—but who gladly gave up that life she loved and returned to the seafoam, to protect them all…

Nor indeed have I explained how at last, years after Prince Sherlock had returned from his two-year, death-like sleep, John Watson finally saw deep enough into his own heart to discover what had been hidden there all along; how when he did, he cast off the memory of Johnderella completely and awakened his dearest friend with a long-awaited kiss…

But I see that you are asleep, young Watson, and so for _those_ fairy-tales, it seems, we must wait another night.


	2. Sheherazade Holmes and the Glass Mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For fan_flashworks "Glass"

John crept down the stairwell, making sure to skip the squeaky steps—although it was difficult to tell the success of his escape with his heart pounding loud enough in his ears that it would have drowned out a whole herd of elephants pounding down with him.

He’d gone upstairs when he got home unexpectedly early from his late shift at A&E—hopefully just _barely_ in time to give Rosie a goodnight kiss—but upon hearing the word _Johnderella_ , he paused in the stairwell, frowning. He stood, one hand on the rail, poised to burst in on the inappropriate, insulting faux-fairytale that cast John in the role of a helpless princess—told to his daughter of all things! Surely even Sherlock could tell that was a bit not good.

But as John listened—only a little enthralled at the deep, musical rhythm of Sherlock’s voice, caressing the ear in a way more familiarly expressed through his violin—he realised that the story was not at all as he had first assumed. Instead, it was a barely veiled account of their first case together, clear despite the embellishment of fairytale vernacular that was Rosie’s current preference for every story. It was, for Sherlock, remarkably honest in its obvious sentimentality. It was… _sweet_. God, Mike was going to grin his head off if John ever told him that Sherlock had cast him as the fairy god-friend. And Lestrade would roll his eyes in agreement at the idea Sherlock considered the whole of Scotland Yard his court.

John could barely breathe as Sherlock finished the story with a deeply flattering portrait of him—at least of the parts of John Sherlock liked—and worked his way through a number of other fairy tales, incorporating the evil King Moriarty—yes, John was all too familiar with him—Princess Mary—oh, Sherlock, how had John ever blamed him for her loss?—and….

Well.

Interesting.

That was _very_ interesting indeed.

And then Sherlock was nearly finished. Apparently, Rosie was asleep anyway, making John’s intention to kiss her good night a matter that could be attended to at a time that wouldn’t embarrass anyone.  So, carried on the swift, silent feet of a coward, John stole away downstairs to the kitchen.

Mechanically, he opened the fridge, peeled back the cling film and scooped a portion of the casserole Mrs Hudson had left them yesterday onto a plate. He took the cup of teeth out of the microwave and stowed it carefully on the ‘Experiments’ shelf, well out of Rosie’s reach even now that she was more than capable of dragging a chair to whatever she wanted to see up close, and set his dinner to reheating.

Sherlock’s account had been, if not entirely accurate, then at least recognisable.

At least _most_ of it had been.

John was fairly sure he would have remembered that last story no matter _how_ metaphorical it had become in the retelling.

He heard the footsteps on the stairs while he was busy with the cutlery drawer, heard the door swing open—heard Sherlock’s stride hitch for a good half a second before he continued into the room and seated himself without acknowledgement.

When John turned around again, he was settled at his microscope: shoulders tense and a hint of colour limning those absurd cheekbones.

John set a knife and fork at his place at the table, which now boasted a perpetually clear space in front of the booster chair and the chair on either side, thanks to Sherlock’s research into the importance of mealtime conversation in language development. There was generally more space on the table now anyway, since Sherlock had moved any potentially dangerous experiments down into 221C to ensure they remained undisturbed.

Rosie’s presence at Baker Street had changed a lot of things. Restored a lot of things. Other things were… much as they always had been.

John had been able to see through Sherlock’s masks for years, even if for a time after the fall he’d lost his faith that what he was seeing was any more than the romanticism that Sherlock had always accused him of.

John had _thought_ he’d seen through all of Sherlock’s masks.

He’d never seen through _this_  one before—but never let it be said that John lacked for bravery.

On his way back to check on the microwave, John rested a casual hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he passed and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, lips firm through the soft, clean-smelling curls. No different to a goodnight kiss he might have pressed to Rosie’s sleeping forehead, if he’d managed to make it all the way up the stairs.

Sherlock tensed in his seat and then visibly, deliberately relaxed, still without moving an inch.

“You swapped the second half of your shift with someone who had a date later in the week,” he said eventually, without lifting his face from the lit eyepieces.

There was, John noticed, no slide clipped to the microscope stage.

“You didn’t pick up something to eat on the way, despite working through both breaks, because you caught a good connection on the tube and then a cab the rest of the way here. I can see the outline of your Oyster card loose in your pocket; you’re always very careful to put it away properly unless you’re in a rush.”

“Brilliant,” said John amiably and, eyeing the bubbling of his dinner through the glass window, cancelled the microwave’s run a little early. He pulled out his plate and popped the teeth back in before closing the door; who knew what the parameters of Sherlock’s experiment were, and it was best to leave things as he’d found them.

“Which you _were_ ,” Sherlock accused the microscope, “because you wanted to be in time to say goodnight to Watson before she fell asleep.”

“Mmm.” John shovelled beef and carrots into his mouth. Sherlock was right about his breaks—the queue at triage hadn’t slowed all evening and he was _starving_.

“But after all of that,” Sherlock said, “you didn’t come in, because you heard the story. I saw the moisture of a hand mark on the rail. You stood there for quite some time, listening.”

“I’m sorry I missed saying goodnight to Rosie,” agreed John between bites, “but she wasn’t expecting me to be home in time anyway.”

Sherlock finally lifted his face from the microscope to eye him. “She wanted me to make something up,” he protested. “She said all the stories on her bookshelf were boring.”

John snorted, and swallowed quickly. “I wonder where she learned to express that opinion.”

He took another bite, chewing it carefully before speaking again.

“It was a nice story. Not exactly made up, though. At least. Most of it wasn’t.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before quietly saying: “She was asleep well before the last bit. If she’d been awake to hear it, I would never have implied that you—”

John smiled at him crookedly, and he desisted.

“Probably would have been cart before horse,” John admitted. Then, after a few moments: “But _I_ heard it.”

There was silence. It was always possible Sherlock was using the scope as an aid to working on something in his mind palace and didn’t need a slide in there at all. But John rather thought not.

He chewed, and thought of the way Sherlock had never, ever corrected people. Not since the very first time he’d corrected John.

At least, Sherlock _hadn’t_ corrected anyone until Rosie started asking questions about parents and families. Then, Sherlock would take down the photos of Mary from the mantelpiece and sit with her, patiently pointing out all the things that the skilled eye could deduce from them about Mary and her love for John and Rosie. As time went on and the sharp residual edge of grief the little ritual had exposed dulled into acceptance, John had stayed to enjoy listening too.

He thought of the way Sherlock had always seen right to the heart of him. He wasn’t always right about what he saw, of course. The decision to cushion the news of his return from the grave with a pencil-drawn moustache and personal insults stood out as a rather telling example. But he’d seen the truth of John's limp and his gun; seen the truth of why John and Mary had fit so well together; seen the way, after her death, to put John’s broken pieces back together again. Again. 

John ate his way through the last few forkfuls of the casserole and scraped up the gravy, feeling strangely calm. That same calm that came with a desert-hot day when the air was still and the dust was settled, but you could _feel_ the eyes watching the convoy, just waiting for the trap to spring shut. The same calm that came with facing off with a murderer over the barrel of his Browning. The calm that came when Sherlock had frozen in place a bare moment before his eyes went large and he began talking very quickly about how stupid he’d been not to have seen it before. That very same calm that came with “God, yes.”

John set his cutlery together on his empty plate.

“God, yes,” he said, non-sequitur.

Sherlock frowned faintly into his empty microscope and then raised his face.

John stood, walked around to him, took that ridiculous face in both hands--and Sherlock let him. His eyes were wary, judging John’s intentions, but he allowed the touch: warm and pliant as John dared to run his thumbs over the sharpness of those cheekbones. John marvelled at the fine texture of lines that had developed over the time they’d known each other; at the largeness of Sherlock’s pupils as they adjusted from the brightly lit scope to the ambient light of the kitchen.

“Did you mean it?” John asked quietly.

“It was only a story,” returned Sherlock, his voice equally hushed. “This is real life. John, it can be only a—”

“Did you _mean_ it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock closed his eyes but didn’t try to pull away from John’s hands.

“God, yes,” he said, and opened his eyes again, pale irises wide open, face utterly transparent.

“Good,” agreed John, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For JunkenMetel, because sleeping with that comment under my pillow brought wonderful dreams. <3


End file.
